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'We seek action, not sympathy'.

A young student, twelve, Khan Younis

For the past two years since I was last inside a learning environment. That long since I heard the school chime at Khawla Bint al-Azwar school, occupied my place and answered questions during my preferred subject. At times I still vividly remember the familiar scents and noises: chalk dust, wooden scraps, joyful sounds in corridors. But my school no longer exists; it was struck shortly after the hostilities erupted. My learning materials incinerated, and some of my friends killed.

I was in the fifth year on 7 October: the concluding day I went to school. That beginning of the day, alert signals screamed through the passageways. Some children cried, others clasped palms firmly. Our instructor sought to soothe, but even her voice trembled. I remember longing for a routine day; instruction, break time, a literary performance. Instead, that day marked the end of my former reality.

Hostilities have claimed innumerable aspects. But the toughest sacrifice of all is learning, because it represents the forfeiture of tomorrow.

Now I live with my mother and father, two brothers and female sibling in a crowded shelter in al-Mawasi. The tent walls move with air currents, failing to insulate. We line up for water and food. Electricity is a dream and seclusion is unavailable. Hope feels fragile.

At darkness, I observe the celestial bodies through the gaps of my shelter and ponder if my companions see the identical heavens. Some message me when they can, expressing they long for education and have retained their previous journals; like treasures from a lost world. I feel remorseful because I’ve misplaced all of mine.

I once aspired to entering the education field to help young residents learn, even when existence was challenging. Now I hope for being a writer – to compose, to speak and to reveal the world what it means to be a child in this region. I want to tell our stories of apprehension and need, but also bravery. Because even here, amid fatality and debris, our expressions persist.

When connectivity is available, I attempt learning via the web. On other occasions, I visit a modest shelter where helpers instruct us mathematics and language. The instruction is limited – the energy supply stops or the attacks recommence but in these instances, I feel alive. I remember who I was: the student who loved numbers and poems, who was convinced education could transform society.

Hostilities have stolen countless aspects; our homes, educational institutions and kin. I grieved for my paternal relative, his partner, and their offspring. I lost my beloved urban area, my previous home, which is only ruins now. But the hardest loss of all is schooling, because without it, our prospects disappear.

To the international community, I express this: don’t let our dreams die. We seek no sympathy, we demand measures. Gaza’s children deserve texts, schools and safety. Education is not optional, it is a fundamental entitlement. The territory is not just ruins; it is children who persist in hoping under aerial surveillance at evening. It is my account and I will keep drafting, even if my only possessions is a damaged writing tool and a scrap of damaged material.

'They message: "are you OK, teacher?"'.

An educator, 40, teacher in al-Bureij camp

I have been educating in Gaza for a substantial period. Originally in that urban area, then in a different town, and now in al-Bureij camp in the central Gaza Strip. In pre-conflict times, I regularly instructed several sets of about fourty pupils per class, hundreds of eager students enthusiastic about knowledge.

Teaching them was my mission and happiness in existence, and I still recollect the sparkle in a pupil's gaze when a concept was understood; the kind of moment every instructor strives for.

I always thought instruction should be full of life. My classroom was a space of recreation, art, and activity. We created cartographic art, acted out historical events, and turned lessons into stories.

Joy always filled the room as curiosity replaced fear. Indeed, even prior to conflict, local youth were always frightened. My classroom was a secure location but after 7 October, the situation transformed.

My school became a refuge for relatives running from the explosives. Shortly after, it was attacked and totally demolished. There are very few educational facilities remaining intact in this area now. For two years, all has been unusual. The war has shattered every part of our existence: safety, residences, learning places, aspirations. Fear and grief are ever-present realities.

Numerous of my pupils are now deceased – minors who mentioned aspiring to be physicians, creatives, and teachers. They were refused even the right to exist. Those who remain live with starvation, eviction and fatigue – and however, they still maintain the will to learn.

At times, when the online access permits, I hear from a handful of them. They message questioning: “Are you OK, instructor?” We exchange short messages, miniature instruction, minor flashes of contact amid the disorder. They question if things will ever revert to standard. I state to them I am uncertain.

Across the region, teachers, aid workers and non-profits endeavor education in any feasible location: in tents, damaged classrooms, or congested safe zones. Learning has become an gesture of resistance, a way to express: “Our presence continues.” And provided that we continue learning, we will endure.

A significant number of us are also parents. I am a parent of {three|several